


Suit Yourself

by copernicusjones



Category: Rune Factory (Video Games), Rune Factory 2: A Fantasy Harvest Moon
Genre: Banter, Humor, M/M, Shopping, Suggestive Themes, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-24 17:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: If Barrett wasn't done with Max before being dragged to Norad's capital for an all-day shopping excursion, he is now.





	Suit Yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelleofHell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleofHell/gifts).



"Why am I here, again?"  
  
"Barrett, that is an _excellent_ question to ask Father Gordon upon returning to Alvarna. I'm sure he has an entire sermon dedicated to—"  
  
"Shut up. You know what I mean." Barrett looked around the establishment they'd just entered, trying to determine how it was possible anywhere on Norad could be so ostentatious that Max de Sainte-Coquille fit in rather inconspicuously. Yet, here they were—here _Barrett_ was—in the heart of the Capital, in Sir Shmooly's Haberdashery.  
  
"For the same reason you've accompanied me on the rest of this trip." Max meandered over to where the hats were displayed, idly examining a plum-colored trilby. He ran the large thunderbird feather trimming it between his fingers. "Because _someone_ needs to assist me in picking up everything required for Rosalind's wedding."  
  
Assist? More like Barrett was the equivalent of a buffamoo, hauling purchase after purchase out of shop after shop and to the carriage Max had rented for this "casual jaunt" (Max's words) to the Capital. Barrett was sure that if they visited one more florist, _patisserie_ or _marchand de vin_ , there wouldn't be any room remaining in the carriage to transport them both back to the port. In which case, Barrett would find himself strapped to the top of the carriage, like another piece of luggage.  
  
Then again, if he had to set foot into Sir Shmooly's adjacent shop, Lady Furpy's Millinery and Boutique, he was positive he'd go into cardiac arrest anyway, so it didn't matter.  
  
"I could have said 'no,' you know," Barrett said as he followed Max through the shop towards the front counter, watching Max's blond hair swish along in perfect rhythm to his practiced, dignified gait. It was all a stark contrast to the slashes of Barrett's dark hair partially obstructing his vision as he became acutely aware of his own hunched, guarded stature.  
  
"But you didn't, Barrett." Max flashed a polished smile over his shoulder. "You didn't. Ah, hello!"  
  
Barrett listened to Max greet the salesgirl, but promptly tuned out the second he heard Max pronounce his name with a flourish on the _Sainte_ , stretching it to sound like _Sahhhn._  
  
Frickin' Max de Sainte-Coquille. Barrett could never quite figure him—or their friendship—out. He had nothing to offer someone like Max. Anyone else, who wasn't from the upper echelon of society, might be impressed by Barrett's status as the mayor's son, but not Max. He constantly praised Barrett for his inability to sugarcoat anything, where nearly everyone else in town expected him to put on some sort of airs just because of who his dad was.  
  
So maybe that was part of it, the lack of expectations on both their ends. Max might tease Barrett about his antisocial personality, but he never urged Barrett to change it—only accommodated it. Whereas Barrett knew there were three certain things in life: you were born, you died, and in between it all, Max de Sainte-Coquille could not be anything if not entirely ridiculous. And he had, despite Max's claims otherwise, the good grace to accept the things he could not change.  
  
"Just put it on my father's account." Max's voice wavered through Barrett's reverie. "Yes, we'd be glad to, thank you."  
  
"Glad to...?" Barrett started, unable to finish because of Max dragging him deeper into the shop.

While fancy, Sir Shmooly's wasn't exactly large. Wherever Max had pulled Barrett to must have been some sort of combination changing area and storage. They were in a narrow hallway, of sorts, with several curtained-off stalls to their right and a row of full-length mirrors to their left. Beyond all this, the room opened up enough to house a lengthy rack of men's clothing. The clothes, mostly suits, were grouped together and separated by what appeared to be lettered tags. Max approached it, gravitating straight to S's.  
  
"Aha! Here we are."  
  
_Here_ were four suits. Three were identical, a deep slate gray, and a fourth was off-white, and far sleeker and shinier. Barrett didn't have to ask one was Max's.  
  
Barrett glanced behind them, wondering if the salesgirl had followed. She hadn't, and Barrett didn't know why he even cared in the first place, about being alone with Max. By the time he turned back, Max was already removing his own suit from the rack.  
  
"This is yours." Max touched the middle of the three gray suits. "Now, let's try them on in case any alterations need to be made."  
  
Uh, no. This day had stretched on long enough, and did not need to include Barrett changing into clothes that looked like something his dad would force him into.  
  
"I have a suit already. I _showed_ you it." Barrett frowned, recalling Max's seemingly random visit to his home a couple weeks ago, inquiring if Barrett did in fact own a suit of any kind.  
  
"Which I thank you for, because that's how I got your measurements. And you're welcome to wear that old thing to the reception, but this is for the ceremony itself."  
  
Barrett didn't budge. "What do you even care about this, anyway? I know you're not one for fashion." Max might have dressed in the latest trends, without a single thread out of place, but Barrett knew full well that it was all thanks to Rosalind.  
  
In one swift motion, Max took Barrett's suit from the rack and shoved it at him. Hard. Caught off guard and more concerned with clutching the suit, Barrett back-pedaled a few steps until a mirror stopped him.  
  
"But I care about my sister, _Barrett_ , and this is her wedding, _Barrett_." Max's eyes were wide, along with his smile, and both were more than a little crazed. "So you will humor me and try your suit on to see if it fits, _now_."  
  
Barrett opened his mouth, ready to comply, but Max misread it as more opposition and continued on his rant.  
  
"Unless you'd prefer to wait until we get home, and then, upon finding they _do_ need alterations, come _all_ the way back here to have them tailored, and spend _all_ day in the capital before we pick them up."  
  
"Alright, would you chill?" Barrett said, some weird mix of irritated and impressed—not that this was atypical when it came to Max. What he didn't admit was that he didn't completely hate the idea of coming back here with Max, especially not for a whole day. Sure, the journey would be tiring and Max, without question, would be too. But escaping Alvarna every now and again appealed to him, and though he'd rather do it all on his own, Max was on the short list of those he could tolerate accompanying him.  
  
Even though Max would likely see it as Barrett being the one who was doing the accompanying.

"I am ' _chill_ '," Max replied in incredibly unchill fashion. "I'm just a little... it's been a long day. This is our last stop before dinner, then heading back to Alvarna. While I'd like to get everything done as quickly as you would, I'd like it to be done _properly_."  
  
"Dinner?" For the first time since arriving at Sir Shmooly's, Barrett's mood took an upswing.  
  
"Yes, Barrett. There's a seafood restaurant a couple blocks from the port and I've heard they have some of the best sashimi in the kingdom. My treat, of course."  
  
"You could have mentioned dinner in the first place," Barrett said, readjusting his suit so it was folded over his arm.  
  
Max stepped aside, granting Barrett access to the changing stall behind him. "And you could stand to have a little more faith in me. What, did you think I would tote you all around the capital for a whole day and expect us to subsist entirely on those cake samples?"  
  
Barrett threw the curtain aside, letting it flutter close behind him as he hung the suit on the knob inside the stall. "I never know what to think with you, Sainte-Coquille," he muttered, not caring if Max heard him or not, nor acknowledging just how far that statement extended.

* * *

Trying on a suit might be an immense pain, but if it meant a quality meal—with Max, and courtesy _of_ Max—he could suffer through it.  
  
Tightening the knot in his tie, Barrett stared at the full-length mirror across from the changing stall, trying to comprehend that the person he was looking at was _himself_. He pushed back the hair flopping in front his eyes so it would look somewhat like it might come Rosalind's wedding day—like he'd bothered to put a comb to it.  
  
He had to admit it, and a _very_ small part of him was hoping Max would admit it too, but... he looked _good_. Not that he gave a damn about how he looked, but the difference from when he'd entered Sir Shmooly's was like night and day. It was as worlds apart as... as him and Max.  
  
Speaking of Max, Barrett couldn't help but wonder what was taking him so long. Sure, he had more to change out of, and was going to button every last button, but this was pushing it, even for him. Barrett knew, _knew_ , there was nothing more that Max wanted than to come sauntering out of the changing room for the express purpose of being the center of attention. Which, sure, wasn't difficult when there were only two other people in the whole place, but that was Max for you.  
  
"Very nice, sir," came a female voice from several feet away. Barrett turned to find the salesgirl from before. She was studying him with nothing short of approval. As she approached him, a long string of measuring tape swung from where it was draped over her shoulders like some bizarre scarf.  
  
"Oh. Uh, thanks." Barrett stayed frozen in place, save for his right hand, which had since fallen from his face, worrying the cuff of his left sleeve.  
  
"No alterations, I take it?" She asked. Without waiting for an answer, she instructed Barrett, "Here, put your arms out in front of you. I can do a spot check."  
  
"No, um... not for me, anyway. I don't think." Barrett did as he was told; the cuffs of his jacket fell just below where his thumb ended, and nothing around his shoulders or armpits felt too snug. "It fits... good. Well?"  
  
"It certainly does. If you'd like, I could bring you some socks or pocket squares that would look rather dashing with your ensemble here." The salesgirl smoothed the jacket along Barrett's shoulder, patting out the wrinkles in his upper arm and causing him to flinch. Why was there this image in his head, completely removed from reality and in some freakish alternate universe, where it was Max doing all this? "I have a few in mind, in fact."  
  
Barrett slipped out from her reach, wishing for once that Max was here to detract the attention from him. "No, I'm good. I don't need... those. I'm just waiting for my..." Friend? Could he say it out loud? Max would hear. So he dodged that subject, settling instead on repeating himself. "I don't need accessories. I'm good."  
  
"Actually!" Edging the curtain back, Max poked his head out. "Oh, hello, Barrett... _look_ at you. But we would be de _lighted_ to see your selection of pocket squares. As a matter of fact, Miss, I trust your judgment entirely. If you'd be so kind as to pick what you think most complementary, and add them to the bill, I would be greatly appreciative."  
  
The salesgirl, as Barrett could have predicted, flushed pink in her cheeks and murmured that she would gladly follow through. The moment she was out of earshot, Barrett closed upon the changing stall, using every ounce of willpower not to rip the curtain off its rungs and bring Max, who was clutching it fiercely, along with it.  
  
"What the hell are you doing in there?"  
  
"Well, right now, I'm admiring just how nicely you've cleaned up. Really, Barrett, it's like refining ore and expecting scrap metal but getting platinum."  
  
Barrett narrowed his eyes, unsure if he should be flattered or insulted. He chose not to address it at all, knowing full well that Max was deflecting the issue at hand. "Yeah, my suit _does_ fits great. Perfectly. And I wanna get the _hell_ out of it and out of here. So hurry up, get out here."  
  
"What on earth for? You don't need to _see_ what I look like. Just close your eyes... it's all as perfect as you might imagine it."  
  
If Max didn't cooperate soon, he was going to be _not_ -imagining Barrett drop-kicking him. "If I had to go through all this, so do you. Get _out_ here."  
  
Max frowned, as if this new, renovated Barrett had changed on the inside too, and might not be the same trustworthy friend Max had known for so long. After a heavy pause, he said, simply, "I _can't_. "  
  
"What'dya mean you _can't_? Now who's stalling? Don't tell me you're trying to renege on dinner..."

Max leaned out a bit further, his pristine white shoulders partially visible but the rest of him still obscured by the curtain. His voice lowered to a whisper, as if the salesgirl might here him from the other side of the shop. "I think they mixed up my measurements with my father's. At least on the pants, I... let's just say that both you _and_ I could fit in them, together."

Instinctively, Barrett stepped away, not putting it past Max to prove it. Yet, he couldn't believe... "Is it really _that_ bad?"  
  
"Is _what_ that bad?" The salesgirl reappeared, cradling a stack of small flat, square boxes. Presumably, the pocket squares she'd picked out.  
  
Only Max could make stumbling look elegant. He all but tripped out of the changing room, the excess of his waistband bunched tightly into his hand. Barrett hardly ever found himself bursting out in laughter, but this was more than enough to prompt a smirky smile and an amused snort through his nose.  
  
"Ah, as you can see, I'm afraid there's been an... error, to put it delicately." He hefted the knotted waistband as proof. "I believe you used my father's measurements that you keep on file, instead of what my sister sent."  
  
Barrett had to bite his tongue to keep from putting it not-so-delicately. Telling the salesgirl that the pants were designed for five hundred pounds of fat-ass, which Max clearly wasn't, maybe wasn't the best phrasing to use.  
  
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry about all that, sir!" the salesgirl said in all sincerity. "We're always so busy this time of year... but that's still no excuse. We'd be more than happy to have the pants tailored for you, free of charge. If you'd like to give me your measurements, I can see to it that our tailor starts the alterations first thing tomorrow.  And we'll ship the finished product to Alvarna to you, free as well."  
  
Max twisted the knotted-up waistband about in is hand, completely lacking in the self-assurance he always preached about possessing. "Er... well, that is... I'm not certain of my measurements, to tell the truth."  
  
"You _aren't_?" Barrett asked, incredulous.  
  
"No! I'm—"  
  
" _How_?" _Are you this useless?_ Barrett left the rest of his question unspoken.  
  
"B-Because...! Rosalind takes care of all that—the measuring, the ordering of our clothes, custom-made. She's been doing so for years. I couldn't tell you the last time I've had to choose my own clothing, and I certainly couldn't tell you my exact _measurements_. But no matter!" A confident smile resurfaced, that he turned on the salesgirl. "That's why tailors have a job, isn't it?"  
  
"Oh, well, yes, Mr. Sainte-Coquille, but I'm afraid ours has gone home for the day. He'll be back in tomorrow, between eight AM and four PM."  
  
Max didn't waste any time issuing a polite, if forced, response. "I suppose we haven't any choice, then. What's another night in the capital? We'll gladly return—"  
  
"No," Barrett interrupted. He lunged for the salesgirl and in one swift movement, whipped the measuring tape off from over her shoulders. "Give me that."  
  
"Sir, please don't!"

"What are you— _Barrett_!"  
  
But Barrett had already pushed Max back against the wall. "Hold still," he demanded, not that Max had much choice at this point, locked in place by the white pants now pooled around his feet.  
  
Too stunned to put up any resistance, Max was silently compliant, save for arcing slightly to allow Barrett to circle the tape around his waist, at his hips, under his jacket but over his crisp white shirt. Barrett'd had to endure this so often as a child, going to functions here in the capital and all around Norad with his dad and mom, and needing to be dressed up the way a mayor's son _should_ be. They always took so _long_ , and he felt so awkward and idiotic standing around in little more than his underwear.  
  
A _lot_ like Max sounded, the first time Barrett could recall hearing him so unnerved. "Barrett, there is a _lady_ present, I-I shouldn't be exposed like—"  
  
"She's not seein' anything. Just hold _still_ ," Barrett growled as he checked the tape for Max's waist measurement. Huh, they were the same size—perhaps the only thing they had in common.  
  
Dropping to one knee, Barrett stretched the tape along the inside of Max's leg. With the pile of pants in the way, he had to use his best judgment as to where Max's ankle was. He wanted to get this correct so as to avoid another return trip, but he wasn't going to just... _hang out_ here, kneeling in front of Max, in front of nothing but his silk boxers (which of course they were—not that Barrett had thought about it before, or anything). His left hand tautened the tape, and Barrett refused to show any kind of reaction as his knuckles grazed more than silk.  
  
He stood, turning to the sales girl as he did. She was as red as the roses they'd picked up earlier in the day. "Thirty-two/thirty-three. Here. Thanks. You can add those... pocket squares or whatever and close out the invoice.  We'll be right up." Handing her the tape back, Barrett didn't even wait for a response before shoving Max along into the changing stall. Max nearly tripped and faceplanted into the wall, but stepping one foot out of his ill-fitted pants prevented him from doing so.  
  
Max's everyday sky-blue outfit was laying neatly on a small stool in the stall's corner. Snatching up the pants, Barrett flung them at him. "Take those damn pants off, Max. Change. And let's get the hell out of here. If you didn't owe me dinner before, you do now."  
  
Barrett was already removing his own jacket as he backed out of the stall, but still had one arm in as Max caught hold of the other sleeve, pulling him back.  
  
"You know, Barrett..." Max's trademark smile was significantly less smug, but he wasn't seeming to mind anymore the lack of coverage on his lower half. "Typically one waits until _after_ they're treated to dinner to request the removal of their partner's pants."  
  
Barrett swallowed. Hard. Stood motionless, one arm in and one out of his jacket as he took in the knowing glint in Max's eyes, the way he tilted his head as if so _interested_ in how Barrett would respond.  
  
But there were too many things in regards to Max that Barrett never had an answer for, only questions, and so he kept silent.  
  
"Well.  Perhaps you didn't know," Max went on as he slipped back into his blue pants. "I suppose there's a _lot_ the both of us don't know. So we'll just have to learn from each other, isn't that right?"  
  
Barrett felt his lips move, heard his own voice say what he'd never be able to come back from. "Yeah, Max. You're right."  
  
And more than speculating about  _why_ he was here with Max—today, or, just a general presence in his life all these years—Barrett was struck with an epiphany of sorts: that the real puzzle lay within  _how_ he was going to deal with it.    
  
Even if it was _after_ Barrett had gotten Max's pants off,  dinner together seemed like a good start.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be part of the You're My Light ficlet collection BelleofHell and I are working on but it got too out of control (which I should have expected, because _Max_ ). BoH is who inspired me to get back to working on my longer fic about Max, Con Affetto, and mentioned how much she liked how I wrote Barrett and Max's friendship in it, so this is a sort of thank you gift for her! 
> 
> Hope you like, readers! Kudos and comments are always welcome and appreciated ❤


End file.
